


the sun, the fire, and the moon that shined with them

by alina_owo



Series: Original Stories [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Blood, Death, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lowercase, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, Queerplatonic Relationships, Time Loop, def inspired by Corpse Party, deliberate, lots of pronoun use, not explicitly said but i need to say it, the use of nicknames but no actual names, they don't stay dead tho, want of a polyamorous relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alina_owo/pseuds/alina_owo
Summary: they could only stare up at the moon, the sun and fire longing for a reprieve from death.too warm, too hot, they could only hope they didn't burn him along the way.
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Male Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character & Original Male Character
Series: Original Stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944256





	1. cut my hair

_second-person pov - firedrop’s_

you remember the first time you had cut her hair. hand under your chin, she tilted your head until you could face her, eye contact and all. lips on your forehead, hand in your hair she had murmured _do you think I'd look good with short hair, firedrop?_ and you whispered in the space between _you can do anything in the multiverse, sunstar_ and you were blessed with another kiss to your skin. 

the metal of scissors burned against the palm of your hand, but you refused to shake when you snipped away at the light brown hair that adorned her head, looking golden under the sunlight that streamed through the curtains. the weapon in your hand and the proximity to her neck made you uneasy, knowing that the blade could easily cut into her neck as it did her hair, too much pressure at the wrong angle, a misstep and wrong wrist movement and the multiverse would lose the one thing that made it bearable. 

in your sleep, you feel the metal of the scissors when you flex your fingers, cutting away at something that oozes warm and sticky liquid. you do not remember your nightmare when you return to wakefulness, but contrary to what others think, you are not stupid and you know whose neck you had been cutting. you wish that you could stop thinking about it. you wish that it did not feel so familiar, the nightmares and killing her. 

there is nobody or thing to wish to, so instead you bury your face against her neck, listening to the beating of her heart; even in the dark, when the sun has not risen and the world is terribly silent, she is still alive and bright, reassuring in her sleep. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, you follow her lead and let your mind remember times filled with sunshine and happiness and nostalgia, instead of cold deaths and warm liquids and sticky scissors. 

it is after you have gotten out of bed, laying out your school clothes, when sunlight streams in, weak but present and she opens her eyes, dim under the lack of lights and foggy with a nightmare no longer remembered but never forgotten. you press a kiss to her brow, and her face moves into a smile that makes her eyes light up, contrasting heavily against the dark bags under them that plague the both of you. 

a quick shower and the both of you change into your school clothes, facing each other just like you had in the shower. her hair drips with water, dampening the fabric on her shoulders and at the nape of her neck, turning it dark with a liquid that is not as dark as the one that haunts your nightmares and your memories. you brush back her hair, quipping how _it's too short to tie back and braid anymore now_ and she brightens like the sun that glows at the windows. 

it's too early for food, nightmares still lasting and stomachs weak, but you both prepare lunch together in the kitchen, dancing around each other in the enough space that has been provided. verbal confirmation of _keys? lunch? money? ID? pocket knife?_ _pepper spray?_ _knuckle dusters?_ and you're both out the door to go and get a drink before you have to walk to school.

you always get iced coffee because you never sleep enough and she gets bubble tea because coffee makes her sleepier than she usually is, and she likes the tapioca. you walk hand and hand with one another, the condensation of the drink rolling down your freezing hand, replacing the bite of cold metal, and you're thankful that the only thing in your other hand is warmth and sunstar. 

your drink is half empty and your face is comfortably numb with the cold air when you arrive at the school entrance, moving your hand so that your thumb presses against her pulse, steady and alive under your skin. there is no one to see the way you press your lips to the pulse, no one to witness her pressing her face into your neck like you had done earlier in the morning. 

the both of you squeeze hands, a silent oath of _(stay alive, stay safe, and stay strong)_ between as you stare into each other's eyes, a moment of silence in a universe that is so loud with death and sadness, before parting ways as you walk into school. you remind yourself that the person you are is not the person everyone thinks you are, that you must play the role that the universe has put you in, go with the rules of a game that you must participate in. 

you hope to sunstar that it is easier today.

you know better than to believe in hope. 

  
  


it takes the universe 3 weeks to find you on your deathbed, chained to a wall half dead as your sunstar lays at your feet, her chest barely moving as blood pooled and stained the floorboard of the shack. out of all the things that are stuck in you, from needles to knives to pencils, scissors are the one thing that didn’t make the list and the irony makes you want to **laugh**. 

instead, you lean your head back so that it’s up against the rotting wood of the walls and you try to figure out how you got into this situation in the first place. everything has a logical progression of events; one thing leads to another, and then another, and then another. 

you wonder if it started when darkraiser brought up the idea to do an occult practice, ignorant to the fact that it is simply a disguised death sentence, malicious undertones hidden by flowery words and flattering sentences. 

you wonder if it started when you started yelling, because they knew how much you and sunstar hated the occult, so much so that both of you decided that no matter what you two would never do anything occult, and you would do what was needed in order to save the others from it as well.

you wonder if it started when they decided that they would do it anyway, behind your backs, and that even though you knew they would, you still tried to stop them and ended up with the same supernatural forces that plague your nightmares from a life always remembered.

you wonder if it started long before now, back at the beginning when you and sunstar were ignorant to the dangers of the occult, charmed the promises of everlasting friendship and happiness, not knowing of the pain and suffering that all of you would face, too late to know that both of you would regret that decision for the rest of your existence.

sunstar shifts beneath you, drawing longer and deeper breaths in an attempt to summon the energy to speak her final words. red, red blood spills from between her chapped lips, raspy and wet coughs shaking her dying body. tears spill from her eyes, looking up at you with dying light and in her drawn breath she whispers to you _i really liked the short hair; cut it for me again?_

the only response you can give her is a smile, tears dripping down your face and blood trickling from your wounds as you see the light in her small smile fade and die out. a loud banging resounds through the shack, and you hear the contact of an axe cutting through wood, but you keep your eyes on your sunstar and the red that stains the floor.

someone slams through the broken door of the shack, and in stumbles moonshine, glasses askew as he gasps for air and clutches a bloodied axe in his hands. you know when he catches sight of sunstar, because his face crumples into an expression of grief and anguish, arms going limp and axe thudding to the ground a second before his knees do. 

you do not feel the same sorrow that is so evident on his face, only cold and dim hopelessness as your vision starts to fade and the blood that coats your clothes starts to cool. the last thing you see is moonshine’s eyes coming up to make contact with yours, shiny with tears and filled with a deep sadness and determination that you wish you could feel again.

the last thing you hear is his scream as you finally fade away, something like relief spreading through your body to replace the light that you lose.


	2. will you protect me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the sun finds home in places other than the sky.

(second-person pov - sunstar’s)

you wake up clutching your abdomen, feeling for a wound that no longer exists, even though it existed mere seconds before. there is no blood in your mouth, but you still taste the tang of copper in your throat, a tickle that makes you want to choke and cough even if it doesn’t exist (anymore). you numb yourself as you get out of bed and pack your things, even as tears stream down your face and irritate your eyes.

it’s only minutes later when your phone vibrates (you never liked ringtones even before the turning point), lighting up the room with its bright obtrusive shine as it displays the caller ID. you pick up and hear your firedrop’s breathing on the other side, not close enough to the screen to be loud, but close enough to hear. there are no words exchanged, only the promise of _(alive, safe, strong)_.

the universe is a blessing quiet when you slip from your room and into the kitchen, leaving behind a note that is starkly white against the dark wood of the dining table (chained body to the wall of a shack). you don’t thank the universe when you manage to leave the house without a sound, but you feel relief at the silence that it gives you, an ounce of mercy in its cruelty. 

when you breathe it leaves a puff of white in front of you and you practice your breathing exercises, in and out, warming the air in front of you as you remind yourself that you have a heartbeat, that you are alive. your footsteps are the only sound in the cold night as the tall street lights illuminate your path in the amiable darkness that surrounds you.

once you get to the (your) apartment that firedrop (and you) live in, you feel inexplicably warmer. your breath does not show as you breathe, knocking softly on the door that has always been a constant in your existence. although your hands are bare, they are not at all cold, and when your firedrop opens the door, they feel warm even before you wrap him in a hug (you wish that he was always warm when you touched him).

he takes your bag from your shoulder and starts unpacking it as you lock the door and enter the kitchen, where a high chair is already prepared. scissors are sat on the counter, glinting in the warm light of the lamp, and a bag on the table to wrap around your shoulders so that hair doesn’t get into your clothing (you know it will anyways). 

firedrop’s footsteps are soft, socked feet padding from the carpeted living space to the tiled kitchen floor, deliberately light and fast as he pulled the bag over your head and grabbed a hold of the scissors. you let him move your head as he snips at your hair, knowing that you are not to blame for the shake in his hands and the fleeting, hesitant touches around your neck.

a part of you wishes that your firedrop did not decide to cut your hair the moment you both came back, knowing how much he hates holding anything weapon-like too close to you (wishes mean nothing though). the other part of you knows how much you both crave to find things that you will enjoy, to do things to wash away the blood and death (it will never truly go away).

so instead, you lean your head back and let yourself relax, let your firedrop know what you are giving him, and when he pressed his hand firmly against the back of your neck and tilted your head forward again, you know he received it. the touches are less fleeting and more present, a warmth that brushes against your skin and sinks into the depths of your soul (your soul?).

your head feels lighter after he is done cutting your hair, a weight that you did not mind, but cannot help feeling better without it. you take off the bag from your shoulders, letting the multitude of hair fall onto the ground, and hop off the chair in order to grab the dustpan and broom to clean up. firedrop moves to the bedroom, readying the shower, and you feel colder in his absence (a wound in your stomach, fading vision and pooling red).

the brown locks that were strewn about the floor are now in the garbage, filling it enough that you take out the bag and replace it, leaving the filled bag by the fridge to take out tomorrow. another small mercy that the universe has given you: the weekend starts tomorrow, leaving you no immediate worry about school (a promise: _alive, safe, strong)._

a shout resounds from the bedroom, and you remember that there is a shower that you must attend to, probably having kept firedrop waiting for a bit too long. you strip off your clothes on your way to the bedroom, muscle memory leading you when you pull your shirt above your head, and by the time you reach the bedroom you can toss all your clothes into the bin.

when you enter the bathroom, the mirror is fogged up, beaded water rolling down the steamed surface and leaving clear tracks behind them. you can taste the moisture in the air (always the taste of copper on your tongue), warm heat surrounding your bared body, and you step next to firedrop underneath the stream of water cascading down his head.

it’s almost like last time; your newly cut hair and his shaking hands that are no doubt remembering scissors from another time, and spurting blood that you almost remember spilling from your neck (too far gone with blood loss and grief to maintain the event). the water is comfortably warm, not hot enough for you to love it but firedrop always runs warmer than you, and you feel he deserves to be as comfortable as he can at the moment.

his hands don’t stop shaking when you take them in your own, but they grip back tight enough that you barely feel his trembling jolt your body. his thumbs press against the pulse point of your wrist (the entrance of a school, bubble tea in your hand), and you feel useless when tears stream down his face and mix with the water that continues beating down on the both of you.

throughout the showertime, your eyes are drawn to the places on firedrop’s body that you remember had been stabbed, staining his clothes with a horribly familiar red. you wish (hah) that you could have stopped it from happening, from having to see your firedrop get crucified with miscellaneous items and weapons (too much like that one time). 

fingers brush your hair back, warm against the back of your head; he doesn’t say anything, but you quip back anyway (too short to tie and braid, but not too short to dye) and the water warms at the hesitant smile that firedrop gives you, even as his shoulders tense at the word too close to death.

you find yourself pressing your fingers against the pulse point on his neck when you scrub shampoo and conditioner into his hair. it’s always nice to remind yourself that blood still pounds within both of your veins, and the only thing dripping down your body is the clear water streaming from above. 

the both of you finish the shower languidly, wringing out the last dredges of soap suds from their hair, and stepping out into the steamy and condensation filled room. she wipes off the clinging water, towel a rough drag over her skin, as firedrop takes his place at the sink and brushes his teeth, making no move to wipe the foggy mirror. you switch places once he’s done, and it’s when you’re brushing out your hair that he leaves the room with a longing glance back.

when you step out, warm and content without the (blood, death, abdomen) at the forefront of your mind, your firedrop has taken his place in bed and clothes are folded in the space that you always occupy. it only takes a moment to dress, a chuckle floating from firedrop when you almost lose balance putting on your pajamas, before your arm is wrapped around his waist and his body a warm presence pressing on you. 

lips press comforting against the crown of your head, hand threaded through your hair, and you respond with a press of a smile to his jaw. it’s easy to feel the curl of his lips against your skin, and you barely stop yourself from grinning too hard. your firedrop’s heartbeat is a steady rhythm against your shoulder, and your fingers trace the places you know he was stabbed (the posed body, the dripping blood, the helpless hopelessness).

you murmur against his skin a solemn word of _i wish i could have protected you, my firedrop_ and he whispered into the space between you both _you have protected me enough, my sunstar_. the moon is a line of shining light through the space between the curtains, enticing in all the ways you know neither of you can truly appreciate, and you persuade yourself that you are blessed in the only ways that matter.

the last you hear is the soft breaths of life from your firedrop, and the memory of a scream so distant, yet so close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is ongoing, but there's no definitive plan for plot.


End file.
